


insomnia

by nishinoya_is_my_sexuality



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss, M/M, References to Depression, SakuAtsu Angst Week 2021, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-26 23:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishinoya_is_my_sexuality/pseuds/nishinoya_is_my_sexuality
Summary: The door slowly creaks open which reveals a dimly-lit man standing in the doorway. “Hi… Omi-kun,” he drawls, managing a slow, practiced smile. Sakusa knows it’s forced.This doesn’t stop Sakusa from taking a short breath that catches in his throat. The man’s appearance shouldn’t surprise him. It does, anyway.“...Miya.”The word comes out indifferent, just like every other time.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu & Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	insomnia

It’s the rain that keeps him up.

The soft _pitter-patters_ are persistent, like Sakusa’s inability to just surrender to his failures. But the raindrops have nothing of his dark, murky, and judgemental thoughts. They are soft and peaceful, whereas Sakusa is like the looming thunder over an ocean. They’re lulling, consistent, and common, but for him, they’re one of the only things left of its kind in his life. Sakusa doesn’t understand why it’s like this. He doesn’t understand why the light taps of water on his roof are bothering him. They’re not abstract concepts or new ideas that he doesn’t understand nor grasp in his hands. They’re tangible and can fly off of his tongue, like the sour taste of umeboshi. Rain is just _rain_. 

Except it’s not. 

Sakusa eases himself off his bed and fumbles around for his mask. It’s laying on his nightstand in a box of other unused masks, as usual. He slips it on and doesn’t bother turning on the light. 

What would he even need to see, anyway? The ever-present memory of a lingering smell left on his empty bed? 

Whatever.

Weary, he steps into the night outside his apartment. It immediately envelops him, and nothing but the expected rain greets him. It’s cold but gentle. Innocent. The faint drops fall down onto the curls of his black hair, like lost, forgotten head pats. They drip onto his face, trailing his cheekbones, the arch of his neck, his collarbones. Feathery touches. Almost like a ghost.

He just stands, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his Itachiyama jacket, and raises his head to the pouring of the rain. There is water on his cheeks now, and he can’t tell whether they are raindrops or tears.

Probably both.

It’s always both.

Sakusa had always been a realist. He never bothered to understand double meanings behind people’s words, dwelled on past mistakes he knew he couldn’t change, or wasted time complaining about wasted time. He had only cared about one thing: volleyball. 

Then things changed. Too fast it went, like a flutter of an eyelash, a flap of a monarch butterfly’s wing, a drunk driver swerving too late. The world changed, and Sakusa was suddenly left behind. He tried to catch up, tried to run, but with every step, the rain fell faster. It was a burden, and he had given up.

Sakusa lowers his head and continues pattering down the soaked sidewalk of his town. Should he really be doing this? He gave up before. Does it matter anymore?

The standing wind picks up, whispering _yes_ in his ears, and he walks on. His jacket and sweatpants are damp from the constant pouring. He’s completely wet, but not in the way he’s supposed to be. The mask he’s slipped on isn’t faring well either. He’s almost there, anyway. It’s only a few blocks away, placed strategically back in the years of blissful volleyball. 

The rain comes down heavier, and soon they feel heavy among Sakusa’s back. Pounding, angry, _furious_. Unforgiving. He clenches his teeth and picks up his pace.

Then he’s there.

The apartment building is a simple place. Run-down and faded, almost like it’s trying to blend out of view. Hiding, shrinking away from Sakusa. 

Soaked, he steps onto the front walkway and proceeds to the fifth apartment down. There’s a railing with a limp potted daisy on it, shivering underneath the harsh rain and a front door in the shade of an old, rusty red. It’s identical to all of the apartments, but he knows it’s truly not. 

Something uncomfortable bubbles in Sakusa’s throat, but he swallows it down as he approaches the door. He raises an arm, and the soaked fabric clings to his skin like a disease. It’s icy, and it sends a shiver down his spine. 

There are two curt knocks and one that lingers on the door. It’s a signal. 

For a few dragging seconds, no one answers. So Sakusa waits. He can wait forever, really. There’s nothing else left to do.

Then the door slowly creaks open that reveals a dimly-lit man standing in the doorway. “Hi… Omi-kun,” he drawls, managing a slow, practiced smile. Sakusa knows it’s forced.

This doesn’t stop Sakusa from drawing a short breath that catches in his throat. The man’s appearance shouldn’t surprise him. 

It does, anyway. Just like a year ago, and the year before that, and the year before that. The rain grows louder in his head.

“...Miya.”

The word comes out indifferent, just like every other time. 

The man only considers him, his hand still resting on the door. Sakusa doesn’t bother trying to decipher the man’s expression. Instead, he stares at him. He’s still tall, his face still defined, relaxed, beautiful, and his hair recently bleached an ugly yellow-orange. In the bad lighting, the colors seem muted, indistinguishable. The man exhales, and Sakusa can smell a faint whiff of sweet rice.

“Come in.”

Sakusa regards him for another brief second before stepping in. His breath catches in his throat again. There’s a sofa in the corner that hasn’t been sat on for months, a huge, blank TV in another, and a circular table in between, still left with crumbs from the last party. It’s exactly how he left it.

The rain in the back of his head grows even louder. There’s something else mixed in with the hate. It’s hoping, wanting, _needing._ It threatens to crash down, and Sakusa sucks in a breath, trying to hold it in. He’s failing and failing and feeling and falling. His heartbeat picks up, and his breathing grows ragged. The rain starts pooling in his mind. 

The other man seems to notice this. “Omi,” he whispers, gently touching the sides of Sakusa’s jacket. 

Sakusa flinches. He can’t not flinch. But he sees who’s touching him, those cloudy, concerned brown eyes, the downward tilt of those sculptured lips, and he forces himself to relax into the touch.

It’s him, he tells himself. It’s him. It’s not anyone else. 

The man hesitates. Suddenly, his arms are over Sakusa’s shoulders, his face gently resting in the crook of his neck. 

Warmth envelops him, and he realizes how much he’s missed this. His breath eases back into a steady rhythm as he wills his body to embrace back. He makes himself feel the warm, soft hair nuzzling his chin and the gentlest of lips on his neck. 

It feels so real. Because it _is_ real. His heartbeat picks up again, his breath coming in short, heavy-hearted puffs, but this time it’s different. This isn’t a dream, and he really _is_ hugging him. It’s him, he says to himself again. It’s him. It’s him. It’s him. _It’s. really. him._

The man squeezes Sakusa tighter. He can’t do anything except squeeze back. It _feels too good_. 

The words pick up in his mind, as he forces these words over and over and over again in his mind. It’s. him. It’s _him_ , it’s him, it’s him it’s him it’s him it’s him...

It’s not him.

The smell of the man’s breath is too off, the way his arms hold him is too wrong, the touch of his lips is too cold. It’s fake.

No, Sakusa’s mind tries. _Kiyoomi, no-_

He pulls away too quickly. His throat is tight. Clenched. He can’t do this anymore.

Water falls down his cheeks. They’re tears, he realizes. Then his vision blurs and he can’t think anymore. His breath falls short and hiccups at first, but it turns frenzied and uncontrollable. The water is at his knees now. His waist, then his shoulders. _He can’t breathe._ He’s gasping, choking on tears, bunched over, his hand over his waist, trying to contain the pain, trying to keep the memory, trying to save _anything he has left_. But they’re all gone, out of his grasp, as they float away in the furious storm as the rain pounds down. 

“Sakusa-kun,” a voice breaks in the midst of the storm. The tone is different, urgent, and deeper, piercing the water with the sound of Sakusa’s last name. 

Sakusa looks up, his eyes failing to focus on the one man who didn’t follow the light. “You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he thinks he says, the words choked out of his mouth.

The light in the back of the room flickers, and the bleach of the man’s hair seems to fade into a dull gray. “I know,” Osamu says. “It’s going to be okay.”

But they both know it won’t, and the rain in his head drowns Sakusa completely.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this instagram post](https://www.instagram.com/p/CLuBHN7grAP/) that was based off of a tweet from [@u_suspend](https://www.twitter.com/u_suspend) that writes, "Atsumu dies so Sakusa tries to find as much of him as he can in Osamu" :')
> 
> Also, I hope Sakusa has a very, very, very happy birthday, unlike this story, today (3/20 in Japan)! I might post something, later on, to try to make it up to him :')


End file.
